<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Midsummer Fun by portraitofemmy</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409383">Midsummer Fun</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy'>portraitofemmy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magicians (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:13:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,984</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quentin's 28th Birthday in the Mosaic Timeline.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>148</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Midsummer Fun</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote the vast majority of this fic today, in order to celebrate our favorite sad little nerd king, and thus it has not been beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Happy birthday, Cutie Q!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"It's the middle of the summer.”</p>
<p>Which is not, really, the most intelligent opening to a conversation Eliot’s ever offered, but well— it’s <em>true</em>. It is the middle of the summer, and in Fillory that means brain-melting heat permeating the deluge of summer rains. Breaks in the rain rarely mean breaks in the heat, but heat isn’t as good an excuse to stop working on the mosaic, and so they’re out working— sticky hot and sweaty, nearly dripping with it. Quentin’s got his hair up in a bun and hasn’t bothered to even close the wrap shirt he’s wearing, treating Eliot to the welcome sight of his flushed chest and belly, the way it bunches a little when he’s kneeling over the puzzle.</p>
<p>Eliot’s not sure why he bothered with the shirt at all— Eliot certainly hasn’t. The quaint countryside of Fillory should thank their furry behorned fuckhead gods that he bothered with <em>pants</em>, much least anything else. Right now, balls to the non-existent wind sounds pretty fucking good. Stretched out on his back in the damp earth near the mosaic, he thinks longingly of Whitespire, it’s long dark hallways of cool stone.</p>
<p>“Were you going somewhere with that, or are you just challenging yourself to come up with the most asinine statements you can think of?” Quentin grouses, cranky with the heat.</p>
<p>Grinding his shoulder blades back against the moist ground, Eliot watches him lazily. He should maybe be helping more, but well— it’s Q’s turn. Eliot spent 3 hours out here last night after dark when the rain slowed to the barest trickle, came back in waterlogged and immediately frizzed up in the heat of the cottage. He’s earned the right to be lazy, and make inane observations while Quentin does his share of the manual labor. Stretching a little, Eliot elaborates: “I mean, it’s basically your birthday, right?”</p>
<p>The clicking of tiles stops as Quentin squints at him suspiciously. “I thought we weren’t doing birthdays. ‘No way tell the actual time differential’ blah, blah, blah.”</p>
<p>He’s so bitchy, Eliot finds him utterly delightful. “Blah, blah, blah,” he agrees, pushing up onto his elbows so he can look at Q. The way it makes Quentin’s eyes flick down along the length of his chest and stomach is just a bonus. “Come on, July 20th is the middle of summer. It’s the middle of summer here. It’s basically your birthday. You’re turning 28, old man.”</p>
<p>“You’re still older than me,” Quentin points out, frowning, determined to hold on to his bad mood. Eliot knows him better than that, though, he can see it slipping around the edges. </p>
<p>“With age comes wisdom,” he returns, lazily waving his hand to deflect the tile Quentin chucks at him. It bounces harmlessly into the wet soil on the other side of the mosaic, and he picks it up with telekinesis, drawing it back to perch delicately on top of a nearby stack. </p>
<p>“I hate you,” Quentin grumbles, but it sounds like <em>I like you a whole lot, asshole</em>. Eliot just grins, sinking back to the ground. “You’re going to be <em>filthy</em> when we go inside, laying in the mud like that.”</p>
<p>It’s not mud, but that’s hardly the point. “Guess you’ll have to help me wash my back,” Eliot sighs, lazily, eyes drifting closed in the summer heat. He doesn’t have to see Q blush. He knows it’s happening, and that’s good enough.</p>
<p>The pattern Q’s been slaving over does not yield a key to greater magic, which is, you know, shocking or whatever. It is at least an excuse to retreat into the cottage for the rest of the day.</p>
<p>“I feel like there are other things we should be doing,” Quentin protests, weakly, as Eliot gently bullies him back inside. “Who knows how long the rains are going to hold off, we should like— harvest? Or go into town?”</p>
<p>“It’s the middle of the summer, Q,” Eliot points out, which earns him an exasperated glare. Laughing, he holds up his hands. “I just mean it’s not time to harvest! I’m sure the orchard is taking advantage of it, but nothing we grow here is ready to come up yet. At least nothing we haven’t already picked as it ripens.”</p>
<p>“I hate just sitting inside in the heat,” Quentin grumbles, dropping down onto a chair next to the table in what passes for a kitchen.</p>
<p>Eliot does know this. Quentin, when it’s cold outside, loves nothing more than being indoors, curled up under a blanket with a book, poking through some spellwork for money or trade. But he has the heat-intolerance of a middle-class New Englander, who grew up with access to air conditioning and was never forced to be outside in the summer sun. As much as Eliot tries to think of his agrarian roots as little as possible, he can remember the way the upper floors of the farmhouse felt almost hotter than outside in the dog days of summer, the way opening the all the windows did nothing to move the air with the non-existent wind off the prairie. He remembers the way being outside felt brutal, unsheltered by trees, only the fucking corn in one field and wheat in the other, the fallow field where the goats were let out. Entire summers spent charged with making sure the goats didn’t get into the corn— and the consequences of failing to do so.</p>
<p>“El?”</p>
<p>Blinking, Eliot focuses back on Quentin, here, now, present, in Fillory, in the little hut they’ve called home for almost two years. “I’m fine,” he says with a shake of his head, trying to shake loose the feeling of constriction in his chest with it. “I wish I’d learned more cryomancy from Margo. But the refrigerator spell is pretty much the depth of what I know, and that has a limited area.”</p>
<p>“You know, the idea of trying to fit myself inside a cabinet for some cold air is actually tempting,” Quentin sighs, glancing over towards said be-spelled cabinet. Then, squinting back at Eliot, “You really are covered in dirt, you know.”</p>
<p>Laughing, Eliot shakes his head. “I’ll go stand outside when the rains start up again,” he promises, gesturing to the window where the skies are already darkening. “You know, I was serious about your birthday. We should do something.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s fond expression folds into exasperation. “Jesus, you never let anything go.”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“What would we even do? Is this just an excuse to get into the good wine?” </p>
<p>“When have I ever needed an excuse for that?” Eliot points out, which does at least make Quentin smile a little, a reluctant curl to the corner of his mouth. “Come on, we’ll make a fancy dinner, have some wine. I even have a book I picked up on my last trip into town that I’ve been waiting to give you.”</p>
<p>“What– hey!” Quentin splutters. “Why are you hoarding books, asshole?”</p>
<p>“Never know when I’m going to need a peace offering,” Eliot says, wisely, but— well, it’s a white lie. He’s been holding on to it for the next time it seems like Quentin needs— something to remind him why he bothers with being a person. But they’ve had a pretty good summer, so far, and chances are Malis will have a new book in at the general store next time Eliot goes into town. He can replenish his stock. </p>
<p>“You’re a dick.” Quentin’s frowning, but not in the way that means he’s actually mad, just like he can’t figure out what to do with the fact that someone else cares about him. Thinks about him. It makes Eliot want to press a kiss to the crease in his brow— and he could, is the thing. Quentin would let him, and then he’d tilt his face up, blinking his soft brown eyes while silently asking for a kiss, and Eliot would give it— and wherever it went from there, it would be special because it always is, somehow. It’s always special with Q, every stolen moment with him that Eliot gets to squirrel away is special. But it wouldn’t be <em>celebratory</em>. And now that Eliot’s had this idea, he really wants to see it through.</p>
<p>“I’m a dick,” Eliot agrees, instead, turning to start digging through the cabinets. “C’mon, let’s make a feast fit for kings.”</p>
<p>“If it’s my birthday, doesn’t that mean I shouldn’t have to cook?” Quentin asks, pointedly throwing his feet up onto the empty chair next to him. “Shouldn’t I just get to sit here and admire the view?”</p>
<p>It’s a little bit of a thrill, it always is, feeling like Quentin <em>wants</em> him. Eliot preens a little, newly aware all over again of his shirtlessness, of Quentin’s eyes on him. “I see how it is,” Eliot sighs, affecting disappointment with a shake of his head. “You just want me barefoot and tits-out, making you food.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s laughter is loud, braying, in the confines of the cabin. “Literally both of those things were your idea. You’re the one wandering around half-naked, talking about birthdays.”</p>
<p>“As you keep pointing out, it’s hot,” Eliot says with a shrug. “I like being comfortable.”</p>
<p>“Mhm,” Quentin hums in agreement, smiling, <em>smiling</em>, to the corners of his eyes. “Whatever you say.”</p>
<p>Teasing aside, it is hot. It’s too fucking hot to any elaborate cooking, and even if it wasn’t, Eliot didn’t plan far enough ahead to have much on hand. He finds himself making a mental note to plan better next year, despite the fact that— well, they might not be here next year, right? That’s what he should want, no matter how much this feels like home— So there’s no game to roast, nothing too fancy, but there are a few peaches left in the cold cabinet, and a bowl full of not-quite-cherries, some tomatoes, and the bright-yellow Fillorian cucumbers from the garden, a couple of different kinds of cheeses half-eaten. Eliot cuts and skins the peaches with quick efficiency, layering them into the rectangular ceramic dish he’d bought from a traveling salesman for <em>5 fucking gold pieces</em>, ridiculously expensive but worth it. Then he tips a few dollops of their precious honey into a bowl with flour and oats and just enough water to make it stick together, patting it into a rustic kind of cobbler they can’t indulge in often.</p>
<p>Quentin, after a bit of performative ogling, does eventually get up to make a quick no-knead skillet bread. They’re good at judicious fire use, by this point, so the bread and the cobbler go onto the sheet of metal over the fireplace at the same time. Just in time, really, for the skies to open with a crack of thunder and a deluge of rain against the roof of the cottage. Grinning, Eliot wiggles his eyebrows at Q and heads outside to rinse off. </p>
<p>They end up sitting on the floor of the main room of the cottage later, table and chairs pushed up against the walls so they can spread the quilt out like a picnic blanket. Thes vegetables and cheese and cherries are mercifully cold from the spelled cabinet, and there’s some of the hard-cured sausage Quentin keeps calling salami even though it tastes more like chorizo, the crispy skillet bread, and the peach cobbler. It really does feel like a feast for kings, no matter how simple it is. Quentin had given in and taken off his shirt before they even started eating, and it feels wildly indulgent, to sprawl out and eat fruit and drink cool blackberry wine, skin on display. It makes Eliot feel lazy, in the quiet of the room, the comfortable silence of familiarity— they’re past the point of needing to fill the quiet with chatter, which is kind of a novelty. Eliot’s not sure he’s ever been that comfortable with anyone before, not even Margo.</p>
<p>“Happy birthday,” he says absently, watching Quentin thumb through the book Eliot had given him, a Fillorian epic poem bound in red leather, about as thick as a finger and just bigger than Eliot’s hand. Fillorian narrative poetry tended to be winding and nonsensical, not really Eliot’s favorite but Quentin— Quentin is Eliot’s favorite. So he tips his head onto his hand, fondly, stretched out on his side watching Quentin. “Will you read it to me later?”</p>
<p>Quentin’s cheeks are pink, from the wine or from Eliot’s attention, he doesn’t know. But his smile is just a little bit shy when his eyes flick up from the book. “I always do, don’t I?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Eliot feels warm, all over, in a way that’s entirely different than the heat of the summer. Quentin’s sitting with one leg tucked under him, hugging the other knee, and his hair’s falling loose against the bare skin of his shoulder. He’s got a visible farmer’s tan going on, shoulders and chest paler than his arms and neck, and Eliot’s mouth waters to kiss him— put his mouth all along that soft skin. </p>
<p>And he knows he’s going to, is the thing— it’s just the anticipation of it, stretching between them like taffy, the wanting that’s almost as sweet as the having. For now, at least, he gets to <em>want</em> safe in the knowledge that he’ll get to <em>have</em>, eventually. He’s not expecting Quentin to reach out and take his hand, but he’s not surprised when it happens either. Twisting their fingers together, Quentin squeezes a little, looking back down at the book in his free hand. “Thanks, El. For, you know, the birthday.”</p>
<p>Squeezing Quentin’s fingers in his, Eliot smiles at him. “I won’t half-ass it, next time, I promise.”</p>
<p>Quentin’s kind enough not to point out that there might not be a next time, that they could be done tomorrow, that they had decided not to celebrate birthdays because it felt too much like putting down roots, like saying this was their life now. And it’s not, it’s <em>not</em>— but.</p>
<p>Maybe it can be, just for tonight.</p>
<p>Instead, Q leans down to kiss him, lips sweet with cherries and peach cobbler and blackberry wine. The angle is a little weird, making Eliot crane up to reach him, but it’s good, it’s wonderful, it’s delightful to be kissed, god— Quentin’s so sweet when you can push past his crankiness and moodiness and mercurial nature, he’s just the sweetest thing. </p>
<p>“I’ll give you half an ass,” Quentin mutters against Eliot’s lips, and— Jesus. Eliot breaks down into a laugh, falling back onto his back on the quilt, sprawling out.</p>
<p>“Only half?” he returns, giggling. “I take it you’ve never had birthday sex before.”</p>
<p>“Who would I be having birthday sex with?” Quentin sighs, poking at Eliot’s ribs, making him squirm. “In my extensive list of sexual partners, none of them happened to coincide with my birthday.” </p>
<p>It’s sarcastic, self-deprecatory, and it makes Eliot’s heart ache a little, the way it always does when Q puts himself down. Eliot pushes up on his hands until he’s sitting up enough that he can cup Quentin’s cheek and pull him in for another kiss, sticky sweet and slow in the heat. <em>You’ve got me, now</em>, he thinks and doesn’t say, because that’s too much like promises they don’t make. Quentin’s lips part on a shaky breath and Eliot takes the invitation, kisses him deeply, fingers sinking into Quentin’s hair. He’s shivery and responsive, eager, open, sucking a little at Eliot’s tongue, <em>god—</em></p>
<p>“What do you want?” he asks, breathless, and Quentin groans. Eliot chases the sound, nosing down to kiss at his throat, running his lips and tongue against Quentin’s Adam’s apple, feeling the scratch of his 5 o’clock shadow. </p>
<p>“Anything, <em>Eliot</em>— whatever you want.”</p>
<p>“No, it’s your birthday,” Eliot protests, kissing down the scratchy column of Quentin’s neck to his pale shoulder, putting his mouth on all that skin he’s been staring at for hours.</p>
<p>“We really— have no way to know if it’s my birthday or not— <em>oh, Jesus, Eliot</em>.”</p>
<p>Eliot hums a little, licking out over the indentations of his teeth on Quentin’s skin, nipping again just to make Quentin moan. “Brat,” Eliot accuses, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the way it makes Quentin laugh, and then makes him shiver. Kissing him again, Eliot chases the taste of his laughter, his happiness— god, Eliot loves making him happy. Against his lips, Eliot murmurs. “C’mon, baby, let me take care of you.”</p>
<p>“You always— <em>ah—</em>  do,” Quentin gasps, jumping a little when Eliot’s hand drags down his chest, across a nipple. Then, babbling, because he is always, endlessly, endearingly <em>Quentin</em>— “Is it super basic if I just want your mouth? Like— you’re so good at it, El, it’s insane, I just want— that, is that dumb?”</p>
<p>“Birthday blowjobs are perfectly acceptable,” Eliot assures him, faking smugness when what he’s really feeling is <em>pride</em>— <em>Like, fuck, did you hear that? He thinks I’m good at it.</em> “Whatever you want, sweet boy.”</p>
<p>Objectively he knows they’re like— 8 steps, maybe, from a bed. But they’re inside, out of the rain and away from the eyes of possible passers-by, and that’s honestly more than can be said for other times they’ve fucked. Quentin’s so pliant and yielding, going where Eliot guides him as they readjust, so Quentin can lay out on the blanket with Eliot hovering over him, safely distant from the remnants of their meal. He can’t find himself particularly motivated to take his mouth off Quentin’s skin long enough to move into the bedroom. No, he’d much rather kiss and bite at Q’s nipples until he’s gasping, tangling his fingers into Eliot’s curls, then trail his lips down Q’s ribs, kiss the freckles on his belly, feel the taught plane of his stomach go concave against his mouth. </p>
<p>“El,” Quentin gaps, hips wiggling aimlessly as Eliot licks out at his belly button, the loose material of his Fillorian pants doing absolutely nothing to conceal his hardening cock. Humming a little to himself, Eliot goes for the ties of the pants, tapping Quenint’s hip until he lifts up enough that Eliot can slide the pants down. </p>
<p>He’s not all the way hard yet, just plumping up, thickening as Eliot settles back between his legs. Eliot glances up the length of his body, catching Quentin’s eye with a grin. Q grins back, happy and— <em>fond</em>, maybe? Eliot feels like he’s got champagne bubbles popping under his skin, excited and intoxicating, and he has to look away from it, least everything he’s feeling show on his face. </p>
<p>No, he turns his attention instead to kissing the skin between Quentin’s hips. He’s such a furry little thing— you’d never know it, with how thin the hair on his chest grows, but it’s thick here, and down his legs, across his forearms. If you’d asked Eliot two years ago, he’d have said he preferred men who cared enough to groom more, but now— now he can’t deny that he likes this, couldn’t deny that it makes his mouth water before he even gets it on Quentin’s dick.</p>
<p>And he loves this too, the feeling of Quentin going the rest of the way hard on his tongue. Quentin’s got such a lovely cock for sucking, honestly. Thick and stout, thick enough to make him stretch for it, make his jaw ache with the strain, but short enough that he can take it almost all the way to the root. </p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Quentin swears, fervent, hand flying down to fist in Eliot’s curls. He knows better than to pull, but Eliot would probably let him get away with it today. It is his birthday, after all. Humming, Eliot adjusts his position for a better angle, feeling a surge of his own arousal the sounds Quentin’s making, the proof of his pleasure on Eliot’s tongue.</p>
<p>And well, the thing is, Eliot <em>is</em> good at this. He’s put in a lot of practice to be good at it. Quentin gets by on sloppy enthusiasm, but Eliot <em>knows</em> how to suck a dick. He knows how to tease just right, until the muscles in Quentin’s thighs at trembling with the effort of holding back, fighting the temptation to fuck up and chase pleasure in Eliot’s mouth. He knows how far to push until teasing isn’t good anymore, and then gives in and lets Q feel good, works his mouth and hand in tandem with a steady rhythm. </p>
<p>Pulling back, he works the head with his tongue, hand jerking along the shaft as Q moans, “<em>Fuck</em>, El, fuck. I can’t— <em>oh</em>— feels so good.” There’s a burst of bitterness across his tongue and he chases the taste of pre-come, working the point of his tongue against the slit until Quentin gasps, a “<em>ha!</em>” punched out him as his hips twitch. </p>
<p>“Yeah, baby, come on,” Eliot murmurs back, pulling off enough to offer mindless affirmation while his hand pulls steadily on Q’s cock. “Look at you, god. You feeling good, baby?”</p>
<p>“<em>El</em>,” Quentin whines, head knocking back into the floor hard enough that Eliot’s distracted by concern for a moment, until Quentin’s hand tangled in his curls tugs him back on task. </p>
<p>He really sets to it after that, pulling out every trick he knows. Bracing on his knees, he brings his free hand up to cup Quentin’s balls, roll them gently in his palm, working his mouth and hand up and down the length of the shaft— everything’s so wet and messy, smells like sex, god, Quentin looks so good. He looks like he’s feeling so good. He’s winding up, Eliot can feel his balls drawing up, tension building everywhere in his body, mouth open on hungry gasps. Eliot hums his encouragement, and Quentin whimpers at the vibrations, the feeling of it.</p>
<p>He looks so surprised when he comes. He always does.</p>
<p>Eliot works him through it, through the bitter pulses of come across his tongue. Quentin’s muscles are chorded with tension, and then he’s loose all over, relaxed into a puddle of satisfaction on the quilt. Pleased with himself, Eliot lets Quentin’s spent dick fall from his lips, peppering gentle kisses all along his hips and thighs until he starts twitching.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Quentin calls, grabbing his attention, and Eliot looks up at him, his flushed-pink face and bitten-red lips. “Kiss me?” </p>
<p>Grinning, Eliot does, happily so. He also humps Quentin’s leg a little, because, well— it’s there, and he’s hard, and Quentin’s mouth is so fucking sweet. He’s just starting to get into it, finding a rhythm he could ride all the way to release, when Quentin’s hands land on his chest, pushing him back. He goes, pushing up onto his hands to look down at Q. “What is it? Are you okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Quentin dismisses, waving his hand impatiently. “It’s my birthday, right?”</p>
<p>“Right,” Eliot agrees, confused, but willing to go with it.</p>
<p>“Then I don’t want you just getting off on my leg.” The words are accompanied by Quentin’s hand, reaching down between Eliot’s legs to cup him through his pants. </p>
<p>Drawing in a slow breath, Eliot’s eyes flutter halfway shut until he can force them open, looking down into Quentin’s eager. “Oh, really? How do you want me getting off?”</p>
<p>“I think you should fuck me,” Quentin breathes, and it’s— it’s almost <em>smooth</em>, by Quentin standards. “I want you to take me to bed and put my hands on the wall and give me this big cock until I can’t remember how to do anything but take it.”</p>
<p>Jesus Christ and all the saints.</p>
<p>“Well,” Eliot starts, voice cracking a little. “What are we waiting for, then?”</p>
<p>Quentin’s grinning when Eliot pulls him up to his feet, and he’s grinning when Eliot kisses him, tugging him up on to his toes in the middle of their living space. He’s still grinning when Eliot turns with purpose towards the bedroom door.</p>
<p>He’s got a birthday wish to fulfill, after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on <a href="https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy">twitter</a> and <a href="https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>